


touch gallery

by flemeth



Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: F/F, fic in the purest sense of the word, i watched this show and it gave me brainworms and here we are, more character study than anything else, there's an ocean and they're lesbians and it's mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26898916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flemeth/pseuds/flemeth
Summary: The first thing Gwendolyn fell in love with when she moved to California was the Pacific Ocean. The second was a pretty young waitress who worked at a small diner by the coast.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Comments: 24
Kudos: 89





	touch gallery

The first thing Gwendolyn fell in love with when she moved to California was the Pacific Ocean. The second was a pretty young waitress who worked at a small diner by the coast. From her window-side seat, white paint peeling gently in the summer heat, Gwendolyn could watch the cyclical bursts of sea water into foam, and then turn her head and watch the waitress turn in her own patterns, spinning from seat to seat, pouring tea and barely balancing the plates that decorated her arms. To Gwendolyn, both views were equally hypnotic, both monopolized her thoughts, hours later. 

The waitress carried herself as though she wanted to be watched, with great exaggerated motions of her eyes and lips. And there was great drama of how she’d sweep her brown hair behind her ears and laugh if she misheard an order. (The event was common, but made Gwendolyn’s stomach flip every time anyway.) Or the way she’d set down a meal as though the whole restaurant might turn and observe and give her marks or, perhaps, applause. Gwendolyn supposed she was aware of her waitress’s theatrics because she was infatuated; and because she was in the business of politics, where these grandiose motions were common-place; and because she, more than most, was finely attuned to sifting those who desperately wanted to be watched from those who moved knowing they were watched. Gwendolyn herself belonged to that second category and, unlike the waitress, did not desire many eyes on her, and would rarely go out of her way to court any additional stares. She carried herself with an entirely different kind of well-practiced poise, and was always aware of where she held her hands, and how nice and simple and ordinary her smile looked when the cameras captured it head-on.

The waitress was skittish about her angles — a small sign of insecurity that Gwendolyn thought was sweet and unnecessary and wished she could care for — and so the girl was always turning in the light, her pale apron flapping in the constant breeze of motion, optimistic that anyone might, for a brief moment, catch her at her best. She wanted to be an actress, like so many young and pretty women along this coast. Gwendolyn supposed the girl indulged her because Gwendolyn was such a meticulous spectator, who smiled when the girl came to her table and laughed when she ‘pretended’ to almost spill the contents of a bowl or tumble a glass. This was as much adoration as the waitress could hope for, and as much as Gwendolyn, so new and so close to the sea, was prepared to give.

As a child, Gwendolyn was careful not to stain her skirt. She sat politely on the plaid picnic blanket, watching Helen sew their dolls new clothes. She thought Helen had the cleverest hands in the world. They moved quickly and with calm determination, hemming a miniature pant leg. Helen didn’t have an issue with trousers, like Gwendolyn’s grandmother. When Gwendolyn suggested they make a pair, casually and like it was the silliest idea in the world, Helen said, “Well of course,” and “I’ll make them for my doll, because her hair is just like yours,” and Gwendolyn felt a burning in her chest. She thought it must be the same feeling that drove her classmates to press the dandelion heads and wild flowers, thrust into their hands by some muddy-fingered boy, into the pages of their school books with prophetic certainty, speak in cloudy voices of “marriage” and “children.” In Gwendolyn, it was a simpler feeling. She wished only to sit beneath her parents white-flowering cherry tree and in Helen’s shadow for the entirety of summer, and maybe into fall, if Helen would let her, if Helen would stay.

Helen didn’t care much for clothes. She always went home with grass stains, no matter what she did. She was practicing her stitches because she wanted to be a nurse. Gwendolyn stroked the tiny pleats of her doll’s skirt, her fine hazel hair. She set her down in the doll house between them, in the brand new living room. If Helen’s doll bore a passing resemblance to her, than it was easy to imagine Gwendolyn’s as a smaller, quieter Helen. Sometimes they did plays, and pretended they were their dolls and their dolls lived together and Gwendolyn’s doll was a doctor and Helen’s was the mayor of an all-women town and they were never sick, because they could always take care of each other. As long as she worked in the backyard, where the neighbours wouldn’t see, Gwendolyn’s father allowed her to use his hammer and so Gwendolyn modified the dollhouse, added rooms and a wider roof. She had spent hours on these clumsy renovations, because she wanted to repay Helen for her friendship and her sewing, and because the world they had created between them seemed to deserve more rooms, more space. If Gwendolyn could’ve built them an entirely new world, she would’ve.

Helen sucked in her lips when she was focused. She made the tiniest knot Gwendolyn had ever seen and then beamed, holding up the slender, pale-haired doll and her new pants. Sometimes, in her presence, Gwendolyn felt a strange and inexplicable desire to break a bone — just her arm, maybe — and then Helen would be allowed to touch her as sweetly as she touched their dolls. 

For one of Governor Willburn’s speeches, Gwendolyn wrote: “It is the duty of good politics to build not houses but homes.” He crossed it out in favour of a crass and forgettable joke, which, to Gwendolyn, was only further evidence that her sentence was necessary, was true.

Helen promised she’d be back, but she had to go where she was needed. They sent her calm, steady hands across the Pacific. She did not write to Gwendolyn about the death. Instead, she wrote about the sea, how it was grey and glinting, like it was made of knives. “I dream of being back home, with softer hands,” and Gwendolyn read that as a second kind of promise, and Gwendolyn dreamed of it, too, years after the war had ended, years after the promise had been broken.

Mildred Ratched also moved as though she were being watched. This was one of the reasons why Gwendolyn offered her a view of the coastline, seafood, drinks. Later, Gwendolyn came to realize Mildred moved like an animal, with wounded wariness, and this was different and more dangerous than her own precautions. She thought: Here is someone who steps in the shadows, and will stay there. She thought: Let her go. You must find a way to let her go. 

In Mexico, Mildred had to be coaxed, with great effort, to release Gwendolyn’s hand. She hovered by Gwendolyn’s bedside, fussed even as Gwendolyn turned to the window. On the beach, families were opening striped umbrellas, casting starfishy shadows onto the sand. There was a steady, endless-seeming pain in Gwendolyn’s body, but it did not seem real. None of it did. The pain, and the pressure of Mildred’s hand, and the way they were in the sun, together. They would have been unrecognizable, in both temperament and appearance, to those who had known them even just weeks ago. Gwendolyn found she did not mind this.

“You should go swimming,” She said faintly, focusing on the distant motion of the waves.

“I couldn’t.” Mildred was fussing with her pillows, the elevation of Gwendolyn’s legs. “I couldn’t leave you.” Gwendolyn turned her head slowly and with some effort; the medications sometimes made her body feel dazed and dreamlike. She shot Mildred a kind but reproachful look, Mildred faltered. “Anyway, I don’t know how.”

Gwendolyn — who still thought this life was unreal, and that Mildred would go on, one day, without her, and so thought as persistently of Mildred’s potential joy as Mildred did of Gwendolyn’s illness, any sliver of discomfort — squeezed Mildred’s hand. “You should learn,” she said encouragingly. And she then raised Mildred’s hand to her lips, kissed her lover’s knuckles, and said the one thing she knew would guarantee a small victory over Mildred’s heart. “For me? I’d like to watch you.”

From beneath the wide brim of her sun-hat, Mildred gazed out at the ocean with suspicion. “I’ll consider it,” she said at last. Another squeeze. “For you.”

At first, Mildred slept tensely. She was so still, Gwendolyn wondered where her mind went in the dark, if it ever wandered or grew reckless. On nights when she was strong and lucid, Gwendolyn would tuck Mildred’s body against hers. She imagined Mildred’s body was made of beeswax, and would warm under her touch.

When the nightmares came, they were sudden and wretched chills. Mildred’s body came alive and tried to escape itself. Dr. Hanover’s head would grow spidery legs, moan as it spun in delirious loops. Incinerated bodies would rise, scissors glinting in their ashy hands. Mildred would open door and after door, and Edmund would be there every time. “But the worst one,” Mildred said one night, while Gwendolyn stroked her hair and tried to think of the kindest words she knew, “is when everything is the same, except everyone knows. Everyone knows exactly what I am, and then there’s no escape…”

We’re far away from that now, Gwendolyn wanted to say. You’re not that person — not with me. As long as they had time, Gwendolyn thought, then they could become anyone they wanted to be.

Gwendolyn’s worst dreams had no blood or guilt. Only a thick, choking darkness. They were rooms where she was alone and without light. That was all that scared her, most days. That was all she tried to tell Mildred, as she pressed her fingertips to her nurse’s cheeks, a touch that would burn away any tears.

Another night, Mildred asked her questions and Gwendolyn recalled old loves, stolen holidays.

“Have you never — with a man?”

They lay side by side. Beneath the covers, Gwendolyn held Mildred’s hand absently. Mildred’s side of the bed smelt faintly, comfortingly, of chlorine. She had been practicing in the evening. From Gwendolyn’s vantage point, propped up in a faded sun-chair, it appeared that simply floating took more of Mildred’s willpower than her hesitant laps. She still was wary of the ocean, its unpredictable rows. When Gwendolyn had enough spirit to approach the shoreline, Mildred would skirt the shoreline with a cat’s dainty indignation.

“No. I just… I never wanted to. There was Trevor, of course, but we had an understanding. And he wouldn’t have, anyway. I think the prospect terrified him, really. He looked away, at first, whenever I undressed.”

“I don’t think I ever wanted to either.” Mildred was watching the ceiling. Her voice was calm and without sentiment. “Not that I knew then. But whenever I was with a man, I would — I had these — I called them scenarios…” Methodically, clinically, she went on, detailing the fantasies she’d impose, the imagined conditions that she had needed. She stopped only when Gwendolyn, who was unable to contain herself any longer, began to laugh.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Mildred was turning from her, a pink flush to her cheeks, and so Gwendolyn moved to catch her waist. She kissed the nurse’s neck and along her chin until Mildred looked back. Gwendolyn cupped her face, and did her best not to smile. “It’s just — God — did that ever work?”

She couldn’t imagine it: the erotics of an elaborate divorce, squabbles over children, amputated limbs, shell-shocked soldiers. (When she was on the ground, bleeding, Gwendolyn hadn’t thought, “If only I could kiss Mildred,” though there was always a part of her that yearned for that. At most she had thought, “I should have simply held her hand.”) It was hardly the sort of thing that would’ve appealed to any of the men she’d worked with, anyway, the lumbering governors and cocksure photojournalists. Despite their ironed suits and condescending smiles, their desires ran closer to those of little boys, rather than gladiators. They were fragile, and in constant need of kind words, praise. Their egos were soft as apricots and just as easily bruised. She was always telling them how clever and handsome and strong they were; that was how you got them to do what you wanted.

“Not really,” Mildred said finally. She looked away, embarrassed at her confession, before she covered her eyes with her hands and laughed, too. “No — it didn’t — they didn’t like it at all.”

Gwendolyn looked down at Mildred, and her unexpected shyness. She ran a finger along the shell of Mildred’s ear. She curled a finger around a delicate, dark wisp of hair. “Did you — because we could — I could try, if you wanted. I do have some experience, you know, at being shot…”

Slowly, Mildred uncovered her eyes and her sharp, penetrating stare. The gentle tremor in her voice pierced Gwendolyn: “No. Thank you, but no. I don’t —”

Mildred raised a hand. She brushed Gwendolyn’s lip and did not take offense when the older woman smiled.

“— I don’t have those fantasies anymore.”

Gwendolyn lifted her glass. There was a faint ring of water in the upper corner of the weekend paper; President Truman's face was now a grey blur, a small stain of smoke. Wryly, Gwendolyn was thankful for Mildred's absence. It was the kind of almost-imperceptible mess would've bothered Mildred in the same way picnickers could not stand a large, aggressive fly. Her brow would wrinkle slightly, in a way Gwendolyn thought unfathomably sweet.

Gwendolyn began each morning with the paper. In the afternoon, she might move onto a memoir, philosophy when she was feeling clear-headed and ambitious. She felt compelled to read things that would ground her in the orbits that loomed beyond her small, happy life. Apologetically, she touched Truman's watery face. All political developments felt like objects held under an eclipse, tinged with fantastical, silver light. She loved that world, still, but it no longer felt part of it.

Behind her, a couple bickered over whether to order orange or pineapple juice. Gwendolyn finished her water and folded the paper, laughing under her breath. Mildred, she was sure, would be polarized on the matter. Hating one drink, favouring another. Every day, there were new particularities. She was as attentive to Mildred's small tells, the frowns, the vocalizations of mundane displeasure as Mildred’s rare bursts of delight. To Gwendolyn, Mildred’s annoyances were signs that she was trusted; they were evidence that the life they had here was without any of the old lies.

She rose, and made her painstaking way down the grey stone steps, fragmented under the chandelier shadows of magnolia trees. When the foliage parted, she saw the wide blue of the ocean, the angular movements of cormorants and gulls in the sky, and, somewhere beneath them, cutting determinedly through the waves, the miniature figure of Mildred Ratched, a flash of teal in her bathing suit.

Pausing by the water’s edge, Gwendolyn rolled up her pant legs before wading in. It was a luxury of its own, to be so close and watch Mildred swim. Gwendolyn felt a sense of ownership over the newly acquired still, so deeply it was almost maternal. No matter what happened, Mildred Ratched would always know how to move through whatever tides she pleased. She always would be able to surface.

When Mildred saw her standing there, knee-deep in the waves, she would pause and she would come. There was no need to call or hurry. For now, Gwendolyn stood and waited, feeling the water move across her skin, repeating its ancient, inevitable rhythms.

Gwendolyn kept her hand where it was after Mildred cried out, waiting for her breathing to shallow. She kissed along the inside of the nurse’s thigh, stopping only when she felt Mildred’s hands in her hair, urging her upwards.

Her fingers were soft shapes in an indigo dark. Mildred took Gwendolyn’s hand in hers, and turned them over in the dim. “You know,” she began evenly, “I used to think there was nothing more abhorrent than a pair of filthy hands…”

And what do you think now? Gwendolyn wanted to ask, teasing, smitten. But Mildred had raised Gwendolyn’s hand to her lips, and now sucked on Gwendolyn’s fingers, as though the memory of Gwendolyn’s touch was palpable and she could taste it, devour it, carry it inside her. All at once, Gwendolyn felt as though her entire body was illuminated and that there was nothing Mildred could do that she would not forgive, no clever motion that she would not find some way to love.

She woke up just before dawn and watched the sunlight creep through the open window, fill the room with a fine amber tint. Mildred’s face was peaceful and she did not stir. The air smelt faintly of salt and night-blooms. Eventually, even the ocean could be still. Somewhere near, Gwendolyn thought, there was a clear plain of blue, where the sun reflected brilliantly and all was bright.

Somewhere near, there was a surface untroubled.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [the mary szybist poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56657/touch-gallery-joan-of-arc). this is simple and indulgent, but it's international lesbian day, so i'm doing my part. my thanks to tiff and ally for assuring me there were some gay merits to this small piece.


End file.
